


Heartbeats and Razor Blades

by SlusherM_221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, F/M, Gen, M/M, Out of Character, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, Suicide Attempt, Trying to move on, graphic depictions of suicide, john is a sentimental fool, sherlock misses his life, you will seriously hate me at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlusherM_221B/pseuds/SlusherM_221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't know how to move on so he really only sees one option, and he is sick of waiting. Sherlock wants to come home, but it isnt safe. Each visit 'with' John leaves him missing his old life more and more. A post-Reichenbach view of John's life after The Fall and how they try to get back to eachother. Can be seen as johnlock or just a really strong Bromance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1-Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock fanfiction and I am using it as a way to get some of my work out there. It is completely written and should be updated every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Criticism and comments are welcome but please keep it civil. This is not Brit picked, nor will it most likely ever be since I already have it completely written. Please tell me what you think or leave kudos to tell me how I'm doing. Thanks!

* * *

 

Mrs.Hudson patted his shoulder awkwardly, though it was meant to be comforting, before shuffling away to 'leave him to it'. When the sound of her steps receeded, he turned to look at the headstone for the first time. The pale gold lettering seemed to taunt him, the black stone that they were embedded into eerily glistening, reminding him how bleak everything was. Is. Will be.

He cleared his throat, hoping to sound devoid of any emotion. After fiddling with his fingers, fists clenching involuntarily, and stuttering for a few minutes in hope of finding the right words, he finally spoke. Keeping his eyes on the tree beside the grave, he imagined Sherlock standing there, an eyebrow quirked at his hesitancy. He could practically hear him speaking, telling him to spit it out. So he did.

"You...you told me once", clearing his throat he tried to continue, "that you weren't a hero. Um, there were times when I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this...you were the best man...uh, the most human...human being that Iv'e ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so, there." He took a deep breath and looked at the ground by the grave, the grass gently swayed as he collected his thoughts. After looking behind him to make sure no one could see his state crumble, he stepped clumsily forward and rested his hand on top of the headstone, patting it reverently. With his voice cracking, he began to speak again. "I was so alone...and I owe you so much."

He couldn's take it much longer, being in public without breaking down. There was too much he was holding in and not enough words or actions to let them all out. Stepping resolutely away, he made it only a few feet away before adding quickly "but there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle...Sherlock...for me. Don't. Be. Dead." His voice came out squeaking in a very feminine manner, but he couldn't care less if he began doing cartwheels in nothing but his pants at the London Eye during rush hour. Breathing deeply, he asked "Would you do..." his voice betrayed him and he only managed a gasp before adding "...just for me? Just stop it. Stop this." He gestured wildly at the engraving that read 'Sherlock Holmes' before bowing his head and trying to regain his composure. His fists clenched tight, nails digging into his skin painfully. After what felt like hours bet were surely only minutes if not seconds, he sniffled while wipping away the last of his tears, and morphed back into his military stance, successfully transforming into Captain John Watson, MD formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, determined and blocked from the rest of the world. It would be a long time before he slipped from that persona again.

With a curt nod, he turned and strode with purpose away from the grave of his best friend, not looking back, but staring unseeingly straight forward.

Detatched from the rest of the graveyard in a small clearing of trees, invisible to all, stood Sherlock Holmes, silently watching his...friend...walk away from his faux grave site. When he was sure his friemd was not coming back, he turned and left the cemetary.


	2. 1 week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes one week after the funeral. Really short, but I am updating the first three chapters today so...cheers.

* * *

 

Early morning light seeped through the windows of 221B Baker Street, illuminating a forlorn scene consisting of one weary man and eight cups of tea. John Watson sat in his armchairn wearing the same clothes he had been wearing for a week, not bothering to wash, moving only to use the restroom for necessities and to make tea. Over his clothes he wore a blue night robe that was too long for him and a brilliant tweed jacket resting lightly over his shoulders.

He was leaning to the side, resting his cheek heavily in his hand with his elbow propping him up. Unconsciously he rubbed slow circles on his leg where his psychosomatic limp was acting up. The man was grubby with a ramshackle beard steadily taking residence on his lined face. He didnt want to shave it, he liked the company. His eyes were becoming more distant by the second.

If the man were to take notice of anything besides the fabric pattern of the chair in front of him, he would soon realize his throat was dry and gritty from lack of moisture, having not spoken since the funeral.

Inbetween his legs he held a cup of tea, still warm but quickly cooling. There were seven other tea cups sitting on nearby tables, untouched, where each morning the man would make two cups of tea, sitting one on a table and holding the other until it grew cold, and then promptly pouring it down the sink.

Repeat.


	3. 2 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 months after the funeral. Really short again...

        

* * *

 

          Not much has changed in the two months John has lived alone in the flat of 221B.

          Every morning, he makes tea for two and pours his down the sink while placing the others on various horizontal surfaces within reaching distance. Tea cups litter the tables the tables and floors and even some stand precariously, dithering on the cushions of the couch. He ha only left Baker street once, and that was in order to buy more tea cups.

          Though he showered and shaved and ate when Mrs.Hudson brought him food. He only went through the motions. Like a robot, like a _machine._

He only ever spoke to Mrs.Hudson _,_ and only then muttering small thank you's.

          He ignored calls and texts and visits.

          He ignored his exsistence.


	4. 6 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I lied. I'm updating 4 chapters today. This one is even the longest chapter yet!

        

* * *

          It has been six months since _he_ has been gone. John visits his grave everyday he can, leaving a flower but never saying anything or staying for more than two minutes. He began to work at the clinic again in order to have a source of income though he doesn't enjoy any of it. Living at Baker street became unbearable with so many things triggering his memories, so for the last four months he has benn living in a modest, if not slightly unsightly flat, in the Tottenham Hale area. He has tried chatting it up with a few women to see if he can acquire a distraction, but all attempts at flirting quickly failed and left him with a bitter opinon of the future; not that he had much in mind since... _he_ left. But, at the end of the day, John would always come back, if only to stare at gold lettering on  a black background without speaking.

          This day started out no different. After his shift at the clinic, John made his way down to the cemetary, only stopping to buy a single white tulip, just like he had been doing almost everyday for almost six months. Six long and dreary months.

          When John finally reached the grave, he stopped a good five feet from the tombstone and gazed at the tree it rested near. For the first time since John started visiting the grave, he spoke.

          "Hello, um, it's me, John here." The man shifted his feet restlessly while he fidgeted with the tulip in his hands. As if remembering why he was there, he placed the flower gingerly by the headstone while saying "Oh, here. This is for you, but you probably already knew that." He rolled his eyes at himself for being obvious. "Well, I got a job at the clinic again, the one Sarah works at. That's bound to be awkward. Uh, yeah, anyways. Mrs.Hudson baked me some biscuits yesterday, though I haven't eaten any of them yet. I ran into Lestrade a couple of days ago, he wants me to go drinking with him sometime. I already have a headstart on him with that bottle of Vodka I started this morning, guess I'll finish that off tonight. Harry and Clara are back together, for the time being, but it won't be long before Harry's back on the bottle. I understand her pining for alcohol now." He walked a little closer to the headstone and shrugged, as if it was really no surprise that he found alcohol so appealing as of late.

          He let out a long, low sigh before speaking again. "I better go and put the kettle on, I'll be waiting for you to get home." John lazily stepped away from the grave, not even realizing he said "home" though he no longer lived at Baker street. He looked over his shoulder one last time.

           "Don't forget the milk."

                                                                                                 

* * *

 

  
            Near the tree that became his usual spot for watching his visitors, Sherlock watched John stride away from the grave, chancing a look back as if he expected Sherlock to be standing by the headstone, watching him leave. _Sentiment_. He was close enough, though. Sherlock turned away and sighed. John was usually the only one to visit him, except for Molly, but she did that twice a week regardless, to bring him food and fill him in on the outside world. Though Sherlock had the option to stay with Mycroft, which was definitely not an option, or with Molly, which was almost equally as tireing a prospect, he mostly stayed in a grove by the cemetary, close enough to his 'resting place' to hear someone walk up, but hidden enough where he was invisible to all who did not venture beyond the cemetary limits. He only left occasionally, and only then to meet up with his homeless network, trading food he found to be superfluous for packets of cigarettes. Molly refused to buy him any.

          Though he has been in hiding for close to six months now, he had only been able to track down one out of the three snipers hired by Moriarty; the one watching Lestrade. As soon as he was taken ut of the picture, Sherlock explained his situation entirely to the Detective Inspector and gained another ally. Sworn to secrecy, Sherlock went back to hiding with the promise that Lestrade was watching Baker street closely.  
   
   
   
  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really is the last chapter of the day. I will be posting the next chapter, which is even longer, tomorrow.


	5. 1 year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is a bit not good to Mrs. Hudson in this chapter.

         

 

* * *

 

          Holy bleeding hell. He can’t believe it has been a full year since… _he_ left him alone. He moved back to Baker street a month ago. Even though it hurt, he couldn’t help but think _he_ was coming back home, and he couldn’t bear not to be there for him when he did. Mrs. Hudson has stopped trying to provoke a response from him, only coming up to clean and make sure he was still breathing. A good idea.

          Raising stiffly from _his_ chair- he never sat in his own anymore, always _his_ \- he shuffled to the kitchen and leaned heavily on the counter. Before his brain caught up to his feet, he was already breathing deeply at the door to _his_ bedroom. Even before _he_ left, he had only been in this room a couple of times, the actual occupant using it even less. When he opened the door, all thoughts left him except thoughts about _him_ \- his smell, his sarcastic tone, the way the light catches his cheekbones in the early morning light- and then it became all too much. This was the most he thought about his former flat mate in a year. Exactly a year. With a sob that waited a year to come out, he collapsed in the center of the bed and breathed in smell, exhaling every emotion he has been holding back in broken, earth shattering sobs.

 

 

* * *

 

          When he finally composed himself enough to be considered presentable for public, he made his way towards the cemetery. There was a small booth near the entrance with a young girl selling flowers. Every time he visited he bought a flower from her, but he still didn’t know her name.

          “Hello.” he said halfheartedly. She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling despite her obvious youth. “Hello,” she answered, “white tulip?”

          He smiled at her again, only nodding in response, as he handed her he money. He started winding his way through the familiar path of the cemetery until the pebbled walkway receded into grass, leaving him to make his way by memory to the big tree standing proud and swaying lightly in the breeze. Underneath it marked the resting place of a truly brilliant man, unique, proud, and separate from the world even in death.

          He came upon it with a heavy tread and a heavier heart. Though he had just visited two days ago, it felt like a thousand dull lives had passed since then.

          Clearing his throat, he started as he normally did. “Hello, mm, John here. As always. How’ve you been?” _Damn John, ‘how’ve you been?’_

          “Well, you know what I mean. Anyways. Life is boring without you constantly making those unbelievable deductions about poor, unsuspecting people in the street or café. Lestrade has stopped coming to see me, getting fed up with my ‘constant moping and doping about’ or some variation of that. Although Harry has taken a liking to lounging on my couch and griping about her life recently, so I’m never alone, it seems, for long. Though it is very easy to not be alone and still be incredibly lonely. At least she brings booze, yeah?” John barked out an emotionless laugh at his poor attempt at humor.

* * *

 

          Sherlock inwardly chuckled and rolled his eyes at the doctor when he asked how he had been, even though he cannot see him. _Really, John? ‘How’ve you been?’_ While john went on about his life, he slowly inched toward the edge of the tree line where he could get a better look at his visitor without exposing himself.

          Sherlock quirked one side of his lips into a grin at John’s obviously distasteful attempt at humor. He expected the good doctor to go on about boring, domestic trifles like he always did, or perhaps the less frequent brisk walk away. Considering this was the one year anniversary of his ‘death’, he thought the later might be the most probable. So needless to say, he was more than surprised when he spoke his next words, voice cracking with emotion.

          “God, Sh…I miss you. I miss you so much. You are- were- my best friend. What am I suppose to do?” John’s face contorted in the way that had Sherlock physically holding himself back from running to console his blogger every time he wore it; and this time was no different. Seeing John like that…he almost didn’t look human, he was so twisted with grief. He tethered himself to the nearest tree and sealed his lips into a thin line. He couldn’t reveal himself, not yet. Not with two of the snipers still trained on 221B.

          Just when he didn’t think he could take any more of the agonized expression on John’s gaunt, once so caring face, he shifted back into military stance. The only evidence of emotion showed in his red eyes and tear streaked cheeks, now drying. With a curt nod, he turned and left the cemetery, leaving Sherlock to muffle a sob that couldn’t, just _couldn’t_ , be coming from him when he was no longer in hearing distance.

* * *

 

          John payed the cab driver absently, undoubtedly giving more than the fare was worth. Mrs. Hudson should be visiting he sister in Kent this week, so it was no surprise there was a growing pile of mail collecting against the door of 221B.

          Picking up the mail and throwing it sloppily on the nearest table, he made his way up the flight of stairs, struggling slightly with his limp made worse by the absence of his cane, left purposefully in his dingy old flat. He made his way to stand in the living room, taking in everything he saw with a rushing wave of nostalgia. Everything was just as _he_ left it; there was paper and books scattered on every available flat surface, a chemistry set occupied the kitchen table, a short stack of mail was held in place on the mantle of the fireplace by a knife, a skull placed next to it. There were still whole colonies of half empty tea cups haphazardly all over the flat that he had never been arsed to pick up.

          Mrs. Hudson never let him forget that she wasn’t his housekeeper, but she always came around to clean, which was strange that she wouldn’t put away all of the forgotten cups of tea. _Suppose she’s having a hard time too._ John grinned a small, sad smile. It was hard to remember he wasn’t the only one missing _him_.

* * *

 

          When Sherlock was sure that John wouldn’t be coming back, he never does when he turns to leave, he stood in the same place his friend did not ten minutes ago. His reflection gleamed back at him in the black stone. For a second, he could have sworn that he saw John’s reflection next to his, smiling serenely up at him. But when he turned, John was nowhere to be found. His mind wasn’t everything it used to be; the great mind felt John’s absence almost as sharply as his heart did. A silly notion, he knew, but potent nonetheless.

          The flower John dropped when he broke down into near-sobs caught his attention. A bug that was crawling on the stem bit him when he picked it up, leaving blood to well from the prick, a thin sheet of it coating the white petal when he swiped his thumb over them. Gazing at his blood on the flower he murmured a soft “I’m sorry…”directed at the flowers petal, hoping John could feel his sincerity through the wilted thing.

* * *

 

          John was in the middle of cleaning the flat when Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs. “Yoo-hoo?” John made an affirmative noise and she fully entered the flat.

          “Oh, John, I didn’t know you were home. I thought you would be out for a few hours. I was just about to leave you some shopping. My sister, the dear, took me to one of those fresh markets and I just had to give you some of these vegetables. They really are quite fresh. I thought you could make a nice stew. While she spoke, she flitted about the room, straightening papers and items that were askew, and helped John gather tea cups. He said nothing and continued to poor cold tea down the sink. Seeing the liquid swirl down the drain sent John into a mesmerized state, pouring cup after cup into the sink. A hand on his shoulder made him jump and the cup he was holding went clattering into the sink. Mrs. Hudson’s hand quickly retreated and flew to her heart. “I didn’t mean to startle you, dear. “ John let out a shaky breath and went back to pouring tea down the sink. Seeing that John wasn’t going to answer her, he rarely did anymore, she fled back into the living room to resume her tidying.

          John released a sigh of relief at her apparent acquiescence, but all hope was dashed when she continued her fussing. He resigned himself to outwardly listening to her constant chatter and focused most of his attention on the buzzing sound slowly crescendo in his ears, only coming out of his strop when finally he registered her words.

          “…and I’m telling you, John, it just isn’t healthy living like this. Do you really think he would have you living the way you do? All moping about and not speaking for days, just like him! You know your limp is back, dearie, and you do nothing to help yourself. I haven’t even seen a glimpse of your cane since Sher-”

          “STOP!”

          John hadn’t realized he was the one who made the sudden outburst until he saw the shocked look in Mrs. Hudson’s face. Seeing her look almost frightened nearly made John feel something resembling emotion for the first time in a long time, but the hesitancy quickly morphed into the only emotion he harbored all this time besides his loneliness; anger.

          “Just stop.” He began. “You have no idea…absolutely no idea…the life I’m living, or how I should be living for that matter. It is my life and I damn will live it how I see fit!” Mrs. Hudson took his pause for breath as a cue to interrupt in hopes of disarming the argument before it exploded. “Now, dearie, I know you miss Sher-”

          Mrs. Hudson once again was cut off by a very enraged John launching a tea cup, still half full of tea, at the wall above the couch. The cup shattered with a loud cling, breaking into little pieces, the tea soaking into the yellow smiley face and running some of the old paint. The face distorted further with John’s unshed tears of rage clouding his vision.

          He turned to face Mrs. Hudson angrily and fumed. “I said stop! Never…never mention his name. Never! Just…just don’t…please, you…you and that damned smiley face on the wall just need to leave me alone.” He turned to face the face, glaring accusingly at the yellow paint and sticking his shaking index finger at the face.

          “And you! Why are you always smiling? Huh? Every day I come home to you, and there you are looking at me, mocking me, no! Taunting me! Just begging for me to do something about it.” John turned back towards Mrs. Hudson, who had started to inch her way to the door during his ‘conversation’ with the wall.

          “Why don’t you both just leave me ALONE?” John finished his rant with a shout of finality and promptly fell on the floor, his knees making painful contact with the wood of the floorboards. Angry tear sprung to his eyes again when he looked up at Mrs. Hudson, but they tracked down his cheeks as lonely and frightened tears when he saw her give him one last frantic look and ran from the flat.

          John stayed on his knees for what could have been hours. Finally, he made his way stiffly up from the floor and into the kitchen. There, he mechanically put the kettle on the stove top and waited for it to boil. Emotion faded from his features as the kettle whistled. His mind went blank and he fixed two cups of tea out of habit, letting them steep on the coffee table. Both cups steamed and cooled and then turned tepid with the light coming from the window slowly dimming until moonlight replaced its rays, bathing the flat in sliver.

          There was no noise coming from upstairs for a while now, so Mrs. Hudson went up the stairs, pausing when she accidently stepped on the creaky step, and ghosted into the flat. Spying the figure slumped in the armchair, she fully came into the living room. John was splayed awkwardly in the chair, as if he was fighting sleep before he conked out, and she just knew his neck would be complaining in the morning. She sighed softly and picked up the union jack pillow and a quilt from the couch and adjusted John accordingly. With one last kind sigh directed to the tuckered out man grieving in the living room, she tutted and left him to sleep off his bad temper.


	6. 2 years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one is quite a bit longer than the previouse ones. Woot woot! John relly is quite sentimental in this chapter. Possible trigger warnings for mentions of abuse and alcoholism. See bottom for further notes and clarifications.

 

* * *

 

          The office was boring, more so than usual. John hadn’t seen a patient all day and it was nearing 2 o’clock. The pollen level was low, so no one came in with allergies, there was no influenza going around, the weather was generally nice so no one came in with a cold. There were no emergencies or accident patients so it seemed the whole of England decided to tread carefully and be cautious for once. All in all, it had been a peaceful few weeks, even a few months, and John hated every pleasant day that ensued. Though he still helped those who came to him, the enthusiasm left him a long time ago.

          For the past week, he had done nothing but sit in his office, staring off into space, and sipping tea. If he slept at all, it was always at work. He was lucky Sarah didn’t fire him and instead took pity on him. Even if she did fire him, he rather doubted he would care. He could do everything he did at work back at the flat. The only trouble would be money, but he suspected Mycroft took care of the rent since the money he gave to Mrs. Hudson always returned to his bank account.

          He was torn away from his thoughts by a soft cough coming from the doorway to his office. Sarah was smiling at him from across the room but she sounded pained when she spoke.

          “Hey, John, how’s today going?” He answered with a simple grunt, open to interpretation. Sarah walked passed his desk and sat on top of the examination table, leaning her elbows on he knees. Her hair was pushed out of her face in a slap-dash ponytail and her concern showed in the wrinkles forming on her clear forehead. “Are you okay, John? You don’t look so well.”

           Her usual tone of voice she used with him anymore, sad and dripping with sympathy, was strained and wearing thin on patience after waiting for years for John to snap out of his rut when he clearly wasn’t interested in her help, or anybody’s. He couldn’t even look her in the eye, his gaze lost somewhere in the grain of the wood of his desk, as he answered with a short “’mm fine.” It sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.

          Sarah pursed her lips and spoke firmly. “John. Why don’t you go home, make yourself a cuppa and get some rest?” John opened his mouth to speak but Sarah held up her hand. “No, John. We’re both doctors here. I know what sleep deprivation looks like, and you clearly haven’t slept in some time. I also know what a hangover looks like, but even the patients can smell the alcohol on you. I don’t want to have this conversation with you, so instead I’m asking you to go home and try to get some rest so tomorrow will be a better day.”

          John sat silently while Sarah finished her piece and mustered up a weak smile. “Yes, mother,” he joked, “and thank you.” He gathered his coat and headed for the door, stopping to kiss Sarah on the cheek, then proceeded to exit the building.

 

* * *

 

          The London air was crisp and smelled faintly of rain from the morning. It was midweek and after early office hours so there were a few people milling about, mostly young mothers and children, a few older couples, and a copious amount of dogs and joggers running the parks.

          John was half way to Baker Street when he knew the empty flat and his creaky bed was not the place he wanted to be. He stopped in his tracks when he realized what day it was. He lowered his head into his hands and sighed. “Oh my God…”

          With renewed determination, he turned on his heels to head back in the direction he came from. He swept past the same faces he did every day, strode past his office and rounded the corner of St. Bart’s, where he froze with his face to the ground. He had yet to walk past this place without his throat closing up and the threat of hot tears pressing his eyes. He took a deep breath and stalked briskly past the hospital, not taking his eyes off the ground once, but still managing not to bump into anyone through now two years of practice.

          The cemetery came into view. A quick glance confirmed John’s assumption that there were only a couple of people present, mostly milling about the entrance. Graveyards were made for two reasons. One, to house the dead. And two, for the families of the dead to have a place to gather, reminisce, and pay respects to those who were dear to them. Though cemeteries were meant to be a place for the living as well as the dead, the later was always in abundance while the living were only a fleeting presence.

          Of all the time John came to visit the cemetery, there was not a single pattern he found of the visitations of others, excluding holidays.

          _There were five people near the gate; one mother, her two small children, her husband, and a young man in his late twenties. The woman was in her late thirties, the bags under her eyes and the creases on her forehead made her look worn and tired, but her eyes were clear and not the slightest bit puffy, so they were not visiting a recent death. Her clothes were well cared for but old and her shoes were tilting in slightly, so they were old as well or she stepped heavily on the arches of her shoes. She was most likely spending more money on the kids than herself. The girl was about six years old with scrapes and bandages all over her arms and legs. Her shorts were torn and dirty, a tomboy then. Her brother was about three, equally as scruffy looking, with one of his fingernails painted pink._ They reminded him of him and Harry when they were kids.

          _The husband was significantly older than his wife with graying hair that might have once been blonde. He had on newer clothes and his watch was new, so he had a good job but he wasn’t doting on his wife, so the marriage must be strained. He kept fiddling with his wedding band and glancing at their young companion-ah. The young man was involved with the wife’s husband but she doesn’t know it, thinking him instead to be a co-worker of his. He was dressed in moderately nice clothes and was sporting a new watch of his own, which he kept twisting around his wrist while glancing at the husband, so a gift then._

          John abruptly closed off his thoughts, his mind going blank, as he came to a halt only a few yards away from the gate. He couldn’t believe what he was just doing. It had become a habit of his, making simple deductions about the people around him, but he never did it willingly, or even consciously, and he always immediately slammed the doors down in his mind when he became aware of his train of thought. Even more unbelievable, he didn’t know if those were his deductions or if he was hearing _his_ voice. He took a deep breath and imagined a steel door with dead bolts sliding into place, locking his thoughts away. He closed his eyes for good measure.

          When he finally opened his eyes, the people near the gate were gone. He mentally shook himself and drifted toward the flower booth, his mind already on the task before him. The girl from the flower stand smiled at him as they exchanged John’s money for a tulip. “My most loyal customer.” She said, her nose wrinkling with her easy smile. He willed a smile onto his features when their fingers brushed.

          John answered with only a slight hesitation before replying in a well masked tone he perfected over last two years. “And my most loyal flower attendant. Do you ever take a break?” he offered her a soft smile when she blushed and rolled her eyes. The girl couldn’t have see the harm in doing a little flirting, even if it wasn’t going anywhere. She pulled her hair and chuckled. “Well, it pays the rent. I’m at Uni, so this is my break.”

          John met her eyes, a pretty blue akin to the deep valleys of the ocean, her blonde hair framing them daintily, and gave her a more genuine smile. “Uni, huh? What are you studying?” She blushed and answered in a meek voice, “Dance…”

          “Well, that’s nice. I myself went to University to study medicine, but I’ve been known to be quite the sight to see at a party.” That made her blush even more and he was rewarded with a shy laugh, her small hands darting to cover her mouth. John smiled at her and extended his hand. “John Watson.” The girl took his hand in a surprisingly firm grip and returned his smile. “Mary Morstan.”

          John gave her his most charming smile, his ‘Three Continents Watson’ smile, very noticeably not meeting her eyes, and squeezed her hand before letting it go. “Well, Mary, it has been a pleasure to finally meet you properly. I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose?”

          Mary nodded her head enthusiastically. “Tomorrow, then. Goodbye, John.” With a final wave, he turned and walked the familiar path through the cemetery. It was so well worn by now that John thought he could see the footprints leading his way.

          John stood in front of the black headstone, just staring, breathing evenly, and counting his heartbeats in his head. When he looked up from his reverie, the sun was beginning to set. The air was crisper with the sun falling behind the trees, visible with every huff of breath. The wind picked up the branches of the tree and swayed them. Time seemed to stand still, liquefying the moment that reminded John of a childhood memory.

          He was twelve years old and his father had just passed. Harry was shut away in her room and John was left to comfort his mother in the living room. He had just made them tea and was currently holding his mother in his arms while she wept silently. She whispered to him while he rocked her.

 "Oh you pearl of my past

                   how long shall your torments last?"

          John whispered the poem out loud to the grave, their meaning finally becoming clear to him in that moment, because in that moment, they fit him perfectly.

                                                                                              “Your once glamorously embellished site

                                                                                              That was ever so beholding to the sight,

                                                Now stands forlornly behind a grotesque background,

                                       Pulverized, polluted and crashed to the ground”

          John closed his eyes and took a step forward, skipping some parts of the poem to get to the point.

                       “They have raped and dishonored you.

                      They have used and abandoned you.

                        They have annexed all your treasures,

                              And yet sit back and enjoy with pleasure.”

          He finished the last of the poem he was reciting, voicing only the parts that suited his position, straight from his memory of his mother whispering feverishly to him in the wake of her grief. All of these years later and he finally understood why those words had stuck with him throughout his life; it was as if the fates knew those words would someday speak to him, here at this grave, everything that sent his world spiraling downward.

          The sun had fully set. The moon and stars provided ample light. The good doctor shook his head while coming back to himself. He cleared his throat.

          “Well, then. That’s a nice way to summarize it, don’t you think? What they did to you? My mum’s the one who first told me that, a long time ago, right after my father died. When she finished, that was when she told me that she was relieved, actually, when he passed. It was a car accident, you know. He had been drinking himself to death for years, but it was worse than usual those few months before it happened. Harriet was never home near the end, off drinking, like always. Like father, like daughter I suppose. I was at a boarding school but I quit attending a normal public school so that I could live at home with my mum. When I was there, my father focused more on me than her. I took quite my share of beatings, but it was worth it, just seeing the bruises fade from her.”

          John paused, momentarily pulled back into his past. He could see his mother clearly in front of him just like she was then. She was regarding him with weary, bloodshot eyes. Her whole body was concaving in on itself; her shoulders hunched, her fingers clutching and clawing at her clothes, the bags under her eyes aged her ten years. She spoke to him then, echoing what she told him in the past right after she recited the poem.

          “You see, Johnny? Though your father is gone now, he will always be a part of me. A part of my life, my heart, my very soul. He will always be here, the version of himself he used to be, the way I saw him.”

          She gave him one thin, sad smile and vanished, leaving him staring at the tombstone of his dead best friend. His eyes drooped and with all the energy he possessed, he dropped gracelessly to the ground and leaned his back on the headstone he could feel the golden etchings digging into his back through the layers of fabric of his jumper and coat, branding him.

          “When she said that to me, that though he was gone, he would always have a place in her heart, in her life, despite his failings, I never quite understood. Why would you still hold such love for someone who wasn’t even there? For someone who had caused her so much pain?”

          John closed his eyes and settled against the stone, his head now resting between the stone and his shoulder. He heaved a great sigh and slumped further onto the ground.

          “Well, I get it now. It’s now quite easy to believe. Makes perfect sense. But why wouldn’t it? If I could still have such a large place open in my life for you, then of course she could still have a place in hers for him, whose love she did have in return.”

          He sighed again, and _dear lord he sighed a lot_ , and that’s how he finished his speech. _Great_ , he thought, _might as well have made a big, flashy sign that expressed what he was really thinking._

          Night had well and truly fallen now, and John was struggling to stay awake, the night air cool and really not helping since he was becoming quite numb. Everything was so very tiring, the breeze so slight it might not have been blowing at all. The number of crickets chirping were slowly growing. The moon bathed everything in a soft, peaceful glow in its exterior, camouflaging the cemetery’s natural uneasy feel. The peace of the moment was expanding and encompassing everything in sight, everything except the crumpled form of John Watson, who had finally drifted off to a disquieted slumber there against the only grave that was unknowingly empty.

         

* * *

 

          When he was certain that John was far into the REM cycle of sleep, Sherlock made his way out from behind the row of trees that provided him cover and stopped to survey the area before stepping out fully, learning from past mistakes. Only a few people had seen glimpses of him moving out from the thicket of trees, but there was no need to make a habit of it. Especially since most of them probably though he was homeless, which he was, but the principal still stands.

           There was no one in sight and even the light from the flower booth was extinguished. Feeling confident that he wouldn’t be seen, Sherlock wrapped his jacket, a flimsy and cheap thing he traded food for, tightly around his body and adjusted his scarf. He came to stand in front of his friend, the closest he had been in two years.

          He remembered a time not too long ago when he considered himself to be a friendless man. Yes, he had acquaintances and a reliable stream of informants in the homeless network, but no one he considered a friend. The closest thing he had to a friend was a few of his university professors that allowed him access to the labs and library after hours and his past drug dealers. He had Molly and Lestrade, whom he considered colleagues, perhaps even good colleagues, and then of course there was Anderson and Donovan, along with a few other people involved with the Met who he considered unintentional and regrettably necessary connections. None of them were “friends”. There was his brother, but he was more of an enemy than anything else, even in childhood, who proved he was useful in providing him distractions and the occasional entrance to a locked door, though he was mostly unaware of that last one. No, he did not have _friends_. That is, until John Watson.

          John was useful to the cases. He was a doctor, which provided him with medical knowledge and opinions he might not have in his mind palace, which was improbable though still possible. It also gave him a valid excuse for not going to the A&E. john knew how to shoot a gun, with unwavering accuracy. In fact, he was quite the better shot than Sherlock. Though he would never admit it, they both knew it. John was loyal and brave, with nerves of steel, but he was also kind and calm, and knew how to talk to witnesses where they wanted to help instead of feeling uneasy because of Sherlock’s gruffness. His methods were effective if not a bit slower than Sherlock’s abrasive ones. John was also not a complete idiot like most of the masses, and could follow Sherlock’s logic to a certain extent, even making his own conclusions and deductions that showed to be correct and useful half of the time.

          But the, John also provided himself to be useful in things besides the cases. John knew how to make his tea and coffee just the way he liked it, Earl Grey tea, original, with a splash of milk, one sugar, and a generous spoonful of honey, his coffee black with two sugars, added vanilla syrup when he was in a slump with no cases to distract his mind. John knew when his silences were meant to be broken and when everything was best to be left unsaid. John forced him to eat when he could, always trying to temp him with favorites; Kaeng Kari and Khao niao mamuang from the Thai restaurant they frequent. Also bruschetta with olives, gnocchi di ricotta, and carbonara from Angelo’s. His tastes constantly changed and circuited, always willing to try something new, but John always knew what he would and wouldn’t eat, and when he was most likely to accept it. This used to be annoying, but he soon grew to appreciate it.

          John knew how to get Sherlock to open up and be polite, as polite as Sherlock could be, and how to tell him to tone done his excitement at crime scenes without asking him to stop completely. Though John asked him for few things, what he did ask was always fair, if not slightly frustrating. Sherlock could not keep heads, feet, whole hands, or any other body part bigger than a book in the refrigerator, but he could keep phalanges, ears, eyes, and other body parts as long as they were not present for more than two weeks.

          John did the shopping. John picked him up nicotine patches. John played Cluedo with him, even though he thought Sherlock cheated and was a sore loser. John always came to Sherlock, no matter what, even if he was on a date with one of his _women_. Sherlock didn’t know when it had happened, but John had become a permanent fixture in his life, and these past two years had taught him just how much he needed John. Once, Sherlock had no friends, and then he had John, his only friend. Sherlock had come to appreciate that he had friends, what other people considered friends, in Molly and Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson held a dear place in his heart, more akin to a mother figure, but he supposed he could consider her to be a friend.

          When he put everyone he knew into these new categories, it was blatantly obvious John didn’t fit into any one of these slots. John could be motherly with his constant care and mother-hen attitude when it came to Sherlock. John wasn’t even near the category he processed Anderson and Donovan in. There were very few people he would insult in such a way. Lestrade and Molly were in the refined “friends’” category. He filed DI Dimmock, Mike Stamford, and Angelo into a space between “friends” and “necessary acquaintances” which he labeled “colleagues and persons of varying degrees of importance”. His brother had a category all his own which was labeled “ _the_ British government and their annoyances”. Sherlock filed away a few others tagged “active enemies”, which included the two snipers he had yet to be rid of, Sebastian Moran, and a nameless face on a piece of paper Mycroft provided him with, “eliminated enemies”, which contained the cabbie, the Black Lotus operations, other people of his past cases, and most notoriously, James Moriarty, and “dubious ally’s”, which held Irene Adler, aka The Woman, Sebastian Wilkes, and Anthea in case he ever needed a co-conspirator to upset Mycroft’s diet.

          John did not fit into any one of these slots. So what did that make him?

          Looking at him now, slumped over on his pseudo grave, he couldn’t help but to see how different he looked from the John he knew. He looked aged and worn, his hair was turning prematurely grey at an alarming rate, but it suited him. His hair was also quite grown out, but that suited him as well. Even in sleep, there were wrinkles framing his eyes and mouth, and he knew there would be wrinkles covering his forehead if he were awake. His shoulders were hunched where looked years older than he was. He looked so very tired.

          He was also growing the beginnings of a moustache. Strange. He didn’t look bad, per say, but Sherlock much preferred him clean shaven. He didn’t know this John, and he was determined to get his John back, but it would have to wait. The moustache would be the first thing to go. For now, he would continue to watch him in secret, continue to hunt Moriarty’s snipers, continue to exist without John; but mostly he would ponder John’s words he spoke tonight.

          He had suspected John had come from a somewhat troubled childhood, his strong moral principals had come from somewhere, but he had no idea his father was abusive. He guessed he would have been a drinker from his sister’s tendency to abuse the substance, but he never suspected him to be abusive to John. John was too confident, too kind, and was such a gentle person to be the product of an abusive home. This only further proved how amazing John was, how strong he was, despite everything.

          He had obviously been reciting a poem or some other for m of writing in the beginning. Sherlock filed the lines away to research at a later date and focused instead on the stanza’s he recited. The poem was undoubtedly about Sherlock and the means he had come to his ‘death’. He knew John had believed in him, even knew his opinions of the people who called him ‘freak’ and looked down their nose at him, but he had no idea he felt that strongly. Sherlock couldn’t tell whether the thought made him proud or incredible sad. Both _feelings_ were foreign to him, nonetheless, so he discarded them.

          Light was beginning to peek from behind the trees, turning the sky a dark grey color. Sometime during his thoughts he had sat down next to John, a mere foot between them. Shortly after Sherlock first came out of the woods, he had laid his jacket over John’s shivering form. With the light coming faster over the tree line, he knew he wouldn’t have long before John started to wake, and him and his coat had to be long gone by then. It wouldn’t do for John to know he was alive just yet, it wouldn’t do at all.

          John’s face scrunched up slightly and his hand twitched underneath the coat. Sherlock knew he should be leaving that instant, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He attentively reached out a hand to smooth John’s hair back from his face. John leaned into the touch unconsciously and moved under the coat some more. With a final touch to his cheek, Sherlock gathered his coat and gave a last long look at his friend. Then he was gone.

         

* * *

 

          It was very cold all of a sudden and there was a light that kept growing. Sound came back to himself first; he heard birds chirping and a sprinkler cut on. Then he became aware of his body again. His neck was in a crick. His back ached from his slouched posture and his arse was asleep from sitting on it all night long. Very slowly, John opened his eyes and let the light flood in. he was disorientated at first, he had no perception of where he was. For a moment, he was back in Afghanistan, scouting the unfamiliar territory for possible enemies. He quickly remembered where was though.

          _Oh_ , he thought _, I must have fallen asleep._ He slowly sat up and methodically stretched and popped hi body back to fluidity, starting with his feet and making his way up to his neck, a habit he picked up from many cramped nights in the army. Goose bumps rapidly spread across his skin, which made no sense because he had been exposed to the cold all night. It was as if something had been covering him, keeping him warm. Strange.  

          He cast his thoughts away and stood, using the headstone for support. His leg ached with a vengeance, nearly sending him tumbling back to the ground. John groaned and turned his face toward the sky; the sun was still rising, the sky still more grey than blue, so early morning then. A quick glance around him showed no one was around.

          John couldn’t remember much from last night after he fell asleep, which meant he probably slept through the whole night, another strange occurrence. He hadn’t slept a hole three hours without waking at least once, much less a whole night, in the two years he had been living alone. The only full night rest he has had was the first night he was left alone, a few weeks after _he_ left, when he got drunk off his arse at a pub and stumbled back to the flat only to fall asleep on the couch at 221B, laying with a face full of _his_ sleeping gown. The only thing he remembered was the overwhelming scent of _him_ . cigarette smoke, peppermint, and just a hint of the cleaning supplies john used to clean up his “lab area” set up in the kitchen. But all of those scents were thrust into the background compared to that dominating scent, that musky _essence_ , that could only be described as…as…John had to physically stop himself from proceeding his train of thought, casting his face downward. He hadn’t said… _his_ name since everyone had forced him to see his therapist shortly after the whole ordeal. He wasn’t about to start now.

          With the countenance of a soldier but the inward turmoil of a man living in his own personal hell, John made for 221B without a second glance toward anything or anyone.

 

          Sherlock watched on from the woods as john woke. When his head snapped back from looking at the sky, he was almost sure that he had heard him, breaking a twig or perhaps breathing too hard, but then his shoulders relaxed and he walked away, not looking back towards the woods, to Sherlock.

          He sighed and turned to go further into the woods after whispering a remorseful, “I know what you mean now, and I’ll show you- just not yet. Not yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The white tulip symbolizes forgiveness  
> -The poem John is reciting is The Rape of the World by Henry Kimathi Muuthia. Though the poem is about the depletion of the earh, I thought some of the lines were quite fitting.  
> -Kaeng Kari is Yellow curry  
> -Khao niao mamuang is a dessert of mango and sticky rice  
> -Bruschetta is an Italian grilled bread that is crucnhy and is served with all sorts of stoping including cheese-it is absolutle divine.  
> -Gnocchi Di Ricotta is also an Italian pasta dish with tomato and other topping such as chives.  
> -Carbonara is another Italian pasta dish.


	7. 3 years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not get to update Friday because I became terribly ill on Thursday and was not able to do much of anything until today. But, this is the longest chapter of the story. This takes place 3 years after The Fall, and John might be finally losing it. Drunk John and Lestrade make an appearance in this chapter and a little bit of angst there at the very end.

         

* * *

 

          The pub smelled like stale beer and crisps. There was a rugby game playing on the telly, a re-run from the 90’s, but that didn’t stop the bar-goers from yelling encouragement and sporting the teams’ jerseys. There was 80’s rock n’ roll playing softly in the background. It was around 9 o’ clock at night, so the business was bustling with people. John spotted Lestrade coming through the door. Lestrade waved and motioned for him to wait, so John called the bar tender over and ordered him a pint and two shots of vodka. He swiveled in his seat to see Greg kicking the karaoke machine to life, choosing the eagles from the selection. When he finally came over to the bar, John extended his hand and the pair shook hands, albeit a little weakly on John’s half. “Greg.”

          Lestrade took his seat next to John and grabbed the pint in front of him. “John, mate. Ta for the pint, but next rounds on me.” John acknowledged him with a “cheers, mate”, and the two clinked glasses and gulped down their drinks. When they put their glasses down, the bar keep came over with the shots. The boys repeated the action with the shots, this time with Greg exclaiming a “To my divorce” as their toast, sending them both into fits of laughter.

          They exchanged small talk about the Met and the clinic, and then it changed to Janet and Mary. Janet and Greg had been married for 23 years and she had been sleeping around on him for the last 10 years, that he knew of, and with multiple people no less. They had been in the throes of divorce for the last 6 months and it would be finalized the coming Monday.

          John had been seeing Mary from the floral shop officially for just under a year, and everyone was thrilled for John beginning to take the façade of normalcy again. Mary was a dear. She was smart and witty, and loved to laugh. How she found stagnate John to still be interesting and able to make her laugh is beyond him. They had become quite serious. They had even begun talking about moving in with each other sometime on the near future.

          The small talk began to titter out and the atmosphere took a sharp turn towards awkward and somber. Lestrade wasn’t avoiding it, per say, the topic they both knew they were there for. Lestrade knew it was all John could think about from his distracted answers and distant smiles. It was the third year anniversary of Sherlock’s ‘death’. It hit him less than it did John, he was sure, because hell, Lestrade _knew_ he was alive, but it was time John moved on. Even with Mary, he could tell he was still living in the past. He was just afraid Mary would find out and leave him, giving John nothing to live for in his eyes. Greg knew that would be his final breaking point.

          He looked over at John and tried to find the courage to broach the subject first, but when he opened his mouth to speak, his eye caught on a gold band, ornately decorated with a diamond and engraved swirl designs sitting loosely on his finger if his left hand. Whistling, he enquired, “Where’d you get that rock?” At first John furrowed his brows at him, but then he gazed down at his hand and realization settled over his face. “Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you, huh? Mary and I are getting married.”

          It wasn’t as if the thought had escaped him, but he just generally didn’t see the need to share the information with everyone. Of Greg was invited, he knew that, not telling him sooner was just an oversight on his part. “Well, are you the women or what?” Greg teased. John’s face got hot with embarrassment and he muttered something about “it was Mary’s choice, she liked it on me.”

           In fact, the only reason he hadn’t moved in with Mary yet was also his fault. He just wasn’t ready to leave Baker Street yet, for reasons less innocent than the ones he provided for it, but it was an unspoken truth that everyone knew but John himself. The reason under the reason everyone knew of John’s delayed departure was a dream.  Not like any of his other dreams of Afghanistan and the hot sun beating down on his back or the silly dreams that occupy the minds of millions; this was a specific dream. It was the only dream he really had anymore, and it was more of a nightmare.

 

* * *

 

          It started out normal. He was on the way to Saint Bart’s to talk to Molly for some reason or another. But when he got out of the cab, something up on the roof would catch his eye. When his eyes focused, he stopped in his tracks, the breath torn right out of his lungs. That was the moment he always knew he was in a dream, because a world with Sherlock Holmes was the world he wanted to live most in, and that world doesn’t exist anymore. He dreamt this dream so often that even his dream-self recognized this moment; he knew what was coming next, yet he was powerless to stop it.

          This time, he didn’t answer the call on his phone or stop in the street to gawk; he ran straight into St. Bart’s and vaulted up the stairs. He stormed passed nurses and patients, not even stopping to look at the elevators, but running right to the stairs until he came to a door opening to the roof top. There he stopped and caught his breath, dreading opening the door to the reality of the unreality of the dream. When he opened that door, it would proceed to happen, no matter what, but he couldn’t _not_ open it either. Even if it was just for a second, it was worth all the pain he knew would come later; seeing him just one last time.

          He pushed open the door and there he was, standing with his back to him, his phone clutched in his hand. Though he wasn’t facing him, he could read his emotions in the tension in his shoulders and the rigidity of his stance. Just before John was about to take a step towards him, the world seemed to swirl and his foot came down crunching a leaf in front of _his_ grave. It looked just like it did the first time he visited, warm with the wind blowing minutely, the sun shining down on the tombstone. The only difference was the figure just beyond the headstone-a figure with pale skin and bright eyes, wild, curling, hair- regarding him warily.

          No matter how many time John had this dream, it always gets him, this part of the dream, seeing his face again. He had that almost-smile on his face but his eyes only conveyed sadness, like he was disappointed in John.

          He opened his mouth with the words already forming, but they catch in his throat, chocking him, his lungs refusing so push them out. John clutched at his throat in hopes he could squeeze them out, but they just wouldn’t come. A small grunt escaped him lungs instead.

          At John’s quiet plea, his best friend snapped his head up and opened his mouth. John felt his word more than he heard them, the soft vibrato resonating in his ears. “Tell me…”

          His words seemed to physically push John backwards, a verbal slap. He closed his eyes, grinding them tight, not letting them have the chance to open in fear of him being gone when he did, or worse yet, still there, and staring at him with that desperate look that sent tears streaming down his face that day, so many years ago.

           He inhaled through his nose and was met with the sharp smell of hospital and London traffic rather than the dead grass scent of the cemetery. Reluctantly, John peeled his eyes open. He was still there, but he was no longer crying. In fact, he had that silly half-smile that graced his face when he thought John had done something clever or beyond his abilities. John made to step forward, but he held up a hand to stop him, and his earlier words echoed around them. “Tell me…”

          The without any preamble, he stepped backwards and disappeared from John’s view.

          With a startled gasp, he sat ram-rod straight up in the bed, making choking noises when the air came too fast. It happened like that every night and always ended with John breathless, teary eyed and the image of _his_ dark curls matted with blood; dark, sticky blood that covered his vision and led him back to an uneasy sleep, only to dream it all over again.

  

* * *

 

          John came back to the present when the waitress came over to deposit two more pints in front of him and Lestrade. He hadn’t even realized he drank all of his.

          The waitress was pretty; fair skinned, light brown hair, and a pleasant smile. She was young, barely old enough to be working at the pub.

          She turned her full attention toward John, all but ignoring Greg, and gave him a broad smile. “This round’s on the house.” Her hand subtly inched forwards until it was only millimeters away from John’s own hand on the counter top, the one without the ring on it. He muttered a quick “Ta” and went to pick up his drink with his dominant hand, inadvertently showing off his engagement ring. The waitress’s eyes quickly found the band of gaudy gold, but she ignored it with only a slight tightening of her eyes. “My name’s Melissa. What’s yours?”

          John glanced up and tried for a warm demeanor while he answered. “John.” Melissa smiled a Cheshire cat smile and moved her hand to rest on top of his fully. Next to him, Greg threw in a sarcastic “My name’s Greg, in case you were wondering.” When she didn’t turn her eyes from John’s, he continued with his monologue. “I like the Beatles, anything to do with chocolate and long walks on the beach.” He hesitated only slightly before adding, “I also quite enjoy unicorns and Liberace.”

          John was looking at the waitress with empty eyes but she didn’t notice. She also paid no attention to Greg, which he was expecting, or else he would have never spoken those words out loud. When the girl leaned impossibly closer to John over the counter, he decided to give up and enjoy the show.

          “So…” she drawled out, “is there anything else I can do for you? Anything at all?” John, as though oblivious to her, just shook his head and said, “Not that I can think of.”

          Lestrade noticed she didn’t take it literally when she leaned even closer and whispered loudly in his ear. “Are you sure about that? I’m sure there is _something_ I can do for you.” John scrunched his brows together in confusion and looked down at his beer and back at the girl. “Another beer would do, I suppose”, he replied. The girl blinked a few times and frowned, but went with a polite nod to get his drink. When she returned, she sat it down and briskly walked away, but not without sending a flirty wink John’s way. ‘Obviously the offer is still on the table’, Greg thought with a snort, but when John turned towards him after hearing his outburst, he only looked confused.

          John stared at Greg for a few minutes before asking, “What?” But his only response was to blush and bore his eyes down into his drink as if it held the answers to the Universe down there. Blushing? John followed his gaze when he looked up, right at the waitress that served them. Oh. He looked back at him and said simply, “Oh, was she flirting?”

          Greg very loudly, and more dramatically than necessary, choked on his beer and regarded John dubiously. “Are you serious? John, mate, I know you’ve been with Mary for a while now, getting married too, cheers to that, but you got to be joking. Could you honestly not tell she was flirting with you?” John silently shook his head. “Well, she was. She was hanging all over you, and did you hear the innuendo in her words? No, of course you didn’t. You used to always tell jokes and make perverted remarks, not to mention flirt with everything in a skirt! You’ve changed…” when John opened his mouth to reply, he added, “and don’t say it’s because of Mary, because you’re a taken man. We both know that’s not it.” John’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click of his teeth. Instead of replying, John gulped the rest of his drink and raised his hand for another one. Greg noticed with idle concern that he was ordering his fifth while he was still nursing his second. The affects of the alcohol were starting to show in John’s drooped eyes and flushed cheeks. He used to be a happy drunk, always quick to make a joke and generally spread his good humor to those around him, but now of days he was more of an angry drunk, prone to somber glowering and deep sighs. When he turned fully towards Greg, he moodily asked him what he really wanted to say, and Greg knew he would have to tread carefully.

          With a deep breath, Greg began his speech he had been planning on giving John for a while now. “Look, John. I know you don’t want to _hear_ this, but you _need_ to. I know this is tough, it really is a horrible thing to go through, but it’s been three years, mate. This isn’t normal. You need to stop waiting around for him. Sherlock…” Greg paused when John visibly went rigid, nostrils flaring, when he mentioned his name. He decided to take pity on him and get straight to the point. “He isn’t coming back.”

          Greg hated saying that. He hated it because he knew it wasn’t true. But even though he knew Sherlock was going to come back, eventually, in his own time, John still needed to move on with his life _now_. He needed to carve out a life separate from Sherlock, a healthy, normal life, where he grieved his ‘dead’ friend but put it in the past and accepted it. Because if John doesn’t accept Sherlock’s ‘death’, he will never be able to accept his coming back. It will utterly break him, and he will be beyond repair.

          Usually when he tried having this conversation with John, he would shut down or make his excuses to leave or change the subject, but something was different this time. Maybe it was because this was the anniversary of the incident or maybe it was because John was finishing his fifth beer of the night, but whatever reason, John finally snapped. He threw his head back to chug the last remnants of his pint and then slammed the glass down harshly onto the table.

          “You think I don’t know that?” he yelled. “Of course I bloody know he isn’t coming back! I’m not a complete idiot, contrary to popular belief.” Greg raised his hands as if to stop John’s on slot and attempted to calm him down. “Now, John, come one. You’re over-” but he was cut off by John standing hastily standing to his feet, the chair scooting back behind him, and practically screaming “Don’t tell me not to over react! I’m not over reacting!”

          They were starting to gain some attention from the other bar-goers and a couple of the waitresses. The pretty one from earlier quickly made her way over to a burly looking man at the far end of the bar. John didn’t seem to notice any of this as he continued with his tirade. “Don’t think I can’t see the looks everyone gives me all the time. You know what those face say? They say ‘Oh, poor John, can’t cope with his grief’ ‘Oh, John, why can’t you just move on?’ Why can’t you people just. Lay. Off!” the burly man the waitress had spoken to came over and was currently grabbing one of John’s elbows which he raised almost unconsciously from his rant.

          “Alright, mate,” he said, “I think it’s time you leave.” John glared at the man briefly before tearing his elbow out of his grasp. “That’s fine. I was done here anyway.” He pulled out his wallet and threw a wad of bills down on the counter. With once last glower at Greg, he left the pub with a huff.

          Greg turned to face the man who asked John to leave, probably the manager, and apologized. “I’m sorry about that. We lost a mutual friend, and even though it’s been a few years, he’s still taking it roughly.” The man nodded his head in sympathy and went on to talk about how he lost a friend quite a few years ago and how he was never the same after it, so he understood, but Greg was no longer listening. Instead, he was thinking about John stumbling about out in the street, obviously drunk, and all alone.

 

* * *

 

          After leaving the pub, John went to the nearest Tesco’s and purchased a case of Casillero Del Diablo Malbec, a red wine that used to buy for celebrations with _him_. This was a time for celebration, was it not? And John wasted no time _not_ celebrating. He would usually be concerned with what other people thought of him, hobbling down the street with a case of wine in one hand and grasping and gulping the contents of one bottle as quickly as humanly possible with the other, stumbling over imaginary obstacles and muttering to himself about having nothing and nobody left in the world he could trust except the steady flow of alcohol. But, honestly, he couldn’t be arsed to care. His alcohol addled mind provided plenty of flimsy excuses for his behavior that he took at face value.

          There was only one place he wanted to be right now, of course, there was little place he wanted to be anymore. The cemetray beckoned him.

          When he was finally situated in front of the grave of his friend, he almost finished the bottle of wine clenched in his clammy hand. Anger built up inside him until he was visibly shaking with effort not to explode. He settled for throwing the near-empty bottle at the closest tree and was awarded with a loud crash of the glass breaking upon impact.

 

* * *

 

          Sherlock was in a deep but uneasy sleep when he was awoken suddenly by a shattering sound not too far away from where he was currently resting. He came to full alertness when the shatter was accompanied by a very angry, and very _familiar_ , huff of frustration. He scrambled to his feet as fast as he could and saw a fuming John Watson, shuddering before his ‘grave’.

          He could smell his alcohol perfumed breath wafting in the wind. John was carrying a case of wine but there was only one missing from its confinement. He wasn’t holding a bottle and they seemed to be more expensive than John’s normal buy, so glass then. That would explain the shattering and broken glass by his feet. John was a frequent drinker, not that he abused it, but he visited pubs with friends and enjoyed a beer or two after work. Just the one bottle of wine wouldn’t have affected him this much, so he was drinking before he bought the case, quite a few by the look of his flushed cheeks and shaking hands. He would have to get closer to be sure, but he thought he saw dampness on the cuff of his sleeve, light brown in color and only on the bottom of the cuff, so somewhere he could rest his hand on top of a table next to the dampness of his beverage at chest level-another damp spot, near faded, on his shirt, midriff-so at the bar counter, not a table. John sitting at the counter and not at a table indicates it was busy. His usual ‘pub-crawls’, as John would so ineloquently state, were popular but never too overly crowded. So not his usual, so meeting someone. Who? Not his sister, no contact there for a while. Sara? Mmm…no, little socializing going on there as well. Mycroft would never debase himself to meet in a pub. Was John seeing someone? Who was it? Why hadn’t Molly told him? Why hadn’t Lestrade…?

          Oh. Lestrade. Of course. Lestrade and John would always meet at the larger bars, something about the smell.

          He had forgotten what day it was, but he was obviously the only one who had. There was something different about this visit. John would always come and ‘talk’ to him in his steady voice, sometimes for hours, other times as shorts as a few minutes. He would talk about mundane things such as the clinic and a new recipe he tried. Fewer times he would be inconsolable in his barely concealed grieve. Those visits always involved tears and rampant emotions, things Sherlock did not know how to deal with effectively. Not that it mattered in this situation considering he was not expected to deal with it or else revealing his second biggest secret, and possibly even his first.

          This was neither of those types of visits. This visit was emitting another emotion from John that usually could only be seen simpering under the surface, and even then never at this magnitude. John was almost physically seeping unrelenting rage and hostility. And, to be completely honest with himself, seeing John like this scared him. John would never hurt him even if he was ‘there’ with him, he knew that, but it scared him in the sense that he was afraid John would hurt himself.

          He should leave. He should turn around and leave John alone at his grave, as he should be, before he does something he’ll regret. Like revealing himself too early based on selfish reasons alone. That was not the plan.

          But then John spoke. “Sorry I haven’t visited in a little bit. It’s only been a couple of days but still…” His words were slurring. Definitely drunk. “Oh, I forgot to get you your flower…I always get you a flower. What is WRONG WITH ME?” His last words were yelled in a strangled voice while he clutched painfully hard at his hair.

          _Oh, God_ , Sherlock thought, _he is tragically drunk._ His thoughts were confirmed when John pulled another bottle of wine out of the case and sit it down next to his grave. “Here you go, Sherly. I know it’s not a flower but it sure is just as beautiful!” He giggle hysterically and then turned somber only five seconds after that. His eyes glazed over and he subconsciously took out yet another bottle and popped the cork, sending it flying into the wood landing close to Sherlock’s feet, taking a long, drawn-out swig. When he was done, the bottle was closer to half- emptyand Sherlock knew he couldn’t stand there and watch John do this to himself. With a final regret filled glance towards his mumbling friend, he took off deeper into the woods until he left the graveyard far behind him. Maybe if he would have stayed, he could have prevented more pain in the future.

 

* * *

 

          John knew he was drunk. He had been drunk enough times to know that, but he was also drunk enough not to care. He giggled some more when he thought he saw a figure moving in the woods, a very familiar figure, and finally admitted to himself that he was going crazy. “Or maybe I’m already there!” he slurred.

         His giggles soon started to sound more like sobs, causing him to sober up real quick. Looking down at the half-empty bottle in his hand, he could only feel disgusted with himself, with what he has become. _No more,_ he promised himself.

          “Please, Sh…Sher…just, please. Please come home. I miss you so much; Mrs. Hudson misses you, hell, even Mrs. Turner misses you. Even the married ones next door miss you! We…we need you. _I_ need you. Why did you have to go, you great git?”

          John sighed and rubbed a tired hand over his face. He was exhausted. He didn’t know when the last time he slept was, or even when he last ate. _Not that it would matter for much longer_ , he thought miserably, though to his own ears it sounded like relief.

          The walk was long from Tesco’s to the cemetery, so it left plenty of time for John to think, albeit a little foggily, about the future in between gulps of wine. So he steeled to himself in front of the grave, ready to let what he knew be known.

          “I can’t do this anymore. I won’t, it’s not worth it. Not even for Mary. Don’t get me wrong, I love her. She knows I do. But it’s still not enough; she would never come close to you. Compared with you, she shrivels in my viewpoint, sad as that is, because I can’t seem to get over what you did to me. You left me, and I can’t deal with it. Not anymore. So if you’re listening to me somehow…and I really hope you are…I miss you and I want you to come home. If you can’t… _don’t_ come home, then I’ll come to you. I’ll find you.” John ended his tirade in an emotionless tone, already accepting of what was to come.

          The only thing left to do was hope. Hope and wait. So he nodded curtly to the headstone and turned on his heel, much like he did that first visit. Like that first visit he stopped before he got too far and turned his head to glance back at the golden lettering one more time. “I promise.”

          A good mile away from the cemetery, Sherlock was still walking blindly ahead, eyes fixed on the ground, no way of knowing anything John had just said to his ‘grave’. The night chilled quickly and as he pulled his belstaf closer around his body, he made a promise of his own. “I’m coming home, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting next chapter is when some of the more intense tags will start applying, so you have been warned. See you tomorrow!


	8. 3 years, 1 week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this take place after John visits Sherlock's grave for the third anniversary of his 'death'-angst! Trigger warnings for graphic depiction of suicide and a suicide attempt. I will put a not in bold before and after the 'gory' part to let you know when to stop and re-start reading if you are uncomfortable with that. It's not a huge chunk and you will get the gist of what he did later on in the chapter.

         

* * *

 

          It was warm in the room, a stark relief from his normally cool nights. The fire was sparking pleasantly, and the hearth was sending long shadows over the walls. There was a large leather chair behind the desk he was sitting in front of and a small lamp sitting on the corner, dusty with disuse. There was a cup of tea steeping next to a cup of brandy, taunting him to choose. He would win though, he wouldn’t choose either.

          There were footsteps coming from the hall followed by the squeak of the door and a quiet cough. “Brother.” Sherlock tried and failed to let out an annoyed sigh. “You’re late.”

          Mycroft entered the room with silent footfalls to stand by his chair behind the desk, not sitting, rather choosing to have a more dominant position over his brother for what was to come. Seeing that is unexpected guest deigned to take either cups presented in front of him, he took the brandy and sipped at it slowly, allowing Sherlock to get to the point of his visit in his own time.

          Sherlock uncrossed his legs and stared at his brother with steely eyes. “Time for me to come home, Mycroft. I mentioned it casually about a week back, so I know you’ve been making arrangements. When I leave here, I will give you one hours time to come to terms with the paperwork you will be force to endure, and then I will be heading directly to Baker Street. I would say that I will give you as much time after my return to deal with the impending crisis my return from ‘death’ will without a doubt have with the press, but I am an impatient man, so I will give you a week where I will lay low. Is there any other annoyance I can clear up before I leave?” Mycroft opened his mouth as if to speak, but he cut him off with a flourish as he rose from his chair and proceeded to the door. “No? Good, I’ll see you laters, brother dear, if I must. Don’t mother me.” The door to the office slammed with finality and all Mycroft could do was slump into his chair, swig down the rest of the brandy, and press the conference call button on his desk. “Anthea? It’s time.”  

 

* * *

 

          The flat was cold and dark and stuffy. The fire had not been lit for weeks and the blinds were drawn, secluding the cold fortress from the rest of the intrusive world. John sat slumped in his arm chair, body tense with anticipation, nails digging into the fabric of the arm rests. His feet were bare and nearly numb with cold, as was the rest of his body-goose bumps rising on his exposed arms and legs, for he was clothed only in a loose t-shirt and his boxers, hair standing at attention, lips turning an alarming shade of pale blue-but he felt none of it, not the cold or the chair underneath him, nothing.

          He was staring intently at the leather chair in front of him where his treasures were so neatly displayed. He wished he could feel something-a hunger pain for not eating for days, guilt for Mrs. Hudson who was bound to be the one to find him, or even the brief relief he felt standing at the cemetery a week ago-but he felt none of it, nothing.

          Nothing, just a sickly calm sweeping over his mind and body, enveloping him in a gentle caress. He wished he could take comfort in that melancholy embrace, but you can only feel comfort if you previously felt uncomfortable, but he felt none of it, nothing.

          A small sigh escaped his lips as he gazed at his treasures, almost sounding content instead of just empty.

          There were five items displayed on the chair, contrasting nicely with the black leather of the seat-a razor blade, a single bullet, and empty magazine, and his unloaded sig-all in a perfect line, straight and gleaming with malicious delight. John thought he had never seen anything as beautiful as the sight before him now.

          The last item was his phone with Lestrade’s number on the screen, in case he changed his mind.  He knew he wouldn’t. Have a plan B was just habit from his days in the military.

          He let out one last sigh in resignation and began talking, leaving a verbal note of his own. The only difference was that this time on one was around to hear it.

          “Well, then. I gave you a week more than I thought I would. Cheers to that. Harry, I would say it has been an absolute pleasure being your younger brother, but it hasn’t been. Nothing was ever simple between us, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Keep up with the no drinking bit, yeah? Lestrade, mate. You’ve been wonderful these past few years, a bloody good friend. Sorry to leave you with the mess again. Anderson, Donovan; glad I never have to see you again. Mrs. Hudson, I’m sorry, I know you’re my landlady and not my housekeeper, but you’ll have to be just this one time more. Mary…Mary, my dear, I love you. You have to know that. Mycroft, kindly stay out of my business in the next life. And Sher-”, he took a steadying breath and closed his eyes, “Well, I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

          He huffed out his breath and reached for his treasures. Mechanically, he loaded the magazine with the single bullet and slid it into place in the hand gun, taking of the safety and sitting it down again on the chair.

          Without hesitation, he reached for the razor blade and set to work.

 

 

**\------------STOP NOW IF YOU WANT TO SKIP THE 'GORY' MESSY BIT :)------------**

          He started with his legs, knowing he would need the strength in his arms later. Sitting on the floor, he took the blade and made three shallow slashes across the bottom of both his feet, deep enough for a steady flow, but shallow enough not to bleed him out anytime soon. It looked so pretty pooling on the floor, so he thought he would add some more. On his calves he cut five cuts of the same depth on each side and three deep slashes on the meaty backs. The pain was starting but his hands were still steady; this was a procedure, a surgery, and he would remain professional.

          He repeated the same cuts on his thighs as he did to his calves, his legs trembling in pain and painted red. When he got to the bottom of his boxers, he cut two slashes in the dips connecting his legs and hips. He didn’t bother taking them off, just slashing through fabric and skin all, one on each hipbone, close enough for his bones to ache.

          Sweat started breaking out all over his body even thought the air was frigid, mixing in a cruel collage with his blood, impregnating the air with a sickly copper tang. His limbs were shaking now, toes curled protectively in, knees bent, head swimming. He was a soldier, a little pain and blood loss wasn’t enough to do this to him, but the sheer anticipation of his actions…that he was actually doing this, finally, _finally_ …was enough to send him off in a high.

          Pulling his t-shirt tight, he cut through the cotton to make a long cut across his abdomen, just below his naval. The crimson blood spread rapidly through the fabric, so he made more. Four above his naval, ending below his chest, stopping to twirl the blade in a circle around his naval. Three on either side of his torso, two deep divots on his love handles, barely there with his weight loss. John thought they contrasted lovely with the cigarette burns he received from childhood. Reaching his back would be hard, but he managed seven slanted slashes on his lower back and three on his shoulder blades.

          Breathing was becoming a problem. He was hyper ventilating from excitement and coupled with blood loss was not helping his vision. He stared blearily at the blade in his hand, frowning at the mess, so he wiped it on his sleeves and went to work on his arms. Six slashes each on the fleshy underside, six on the top and once across his palms.

          The pain was unbelievable, sending his vision flashing red and white. “Well,” John thought, “this is quite euphoric. Time to finish the job.”

          He cut the deepest slashes yet in the creases of his armpits, elbows, and knees. He was exhausted, sleep was calling to him, but he wasn’t done. He swirled his fingers in the blood and painted a smiley face on the ground next to his head, with the initials ‘SH’ by the top.

          The point of this exercise was to punish himself. Punish himself for his stupidity, naivety, loss, everything he had ever done wrong. It was serving its purpose well. His whole body was weak and tingling, shallow breaths escaping his lips in small gasps, his body unbelievably hot and sweaty to the point where the frigid air was cooling the thin sheet of sweat on his forehead. A fever then, he was progressing nicely.

          He thought he would want a bit to relish his actions, but now he was just ready for it to be over.

          He was laying on the floor between the two chairs, so he had to reach up for the gun dangling on the edge of the chair. Once he had a firm enough grip on the handle, his arm clattered to the ground, weak from his efforts. John tried to raise the gun to rest on his temple but his strength failed him again. With a sigh, he rested the gun at an awkward angle somewhere in the area of his chest and stomach. It wasn’t the best angle, but it wouldn’t matter. If he died from a direct hit or bleeding out, it doesn’t matter to him.

 

 

**\------------YOU CAN START READING AGAIN :)------------**

          John closed his eyes and let out an easy sigh, the last thought in his head being how that smiley face was probably beaming at him with smug satisfaction before pulling the trigger and sending a resounding _bang_! throughout the building. Then he was floating in a weightless black space that eased his mind of consciousness for the first time in what seemed like a very long time coming.

 

* * *

 

          Sherlock was twitching with anticipation. It had been an hour since his talk with Mycroft and he was ready to go home. _Home,_ he thought miserably, would he even be welcomed back? He talked to Lestrade after Mycroft and he promised to be near the flat in case things got rather heated. He wasn’t a fool. He knew it would take a while for John to forgive him, if ever. But there was always hope.

          _Hope_ , he thought bitterly, _what a ridiculous sentiment_.

          He was unlocking the door with a key provided by Lestrade, trying to close it quietly when he was interrupted by a loud bang that turned his blood cold. “John…” he whispered.

          Without a thought, he bounded up the stairs and flew through the door to see John standing in the middle of the flat with his gun pointed at the wall.

          Then he blinked and John was lying on the ground, his nails digging at the carpet and a growing pool of blood surrounding his body.

          Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat when he allowed himself to focus on John. He looked so small and helpless lying there on the floor, his head thrown to one side, eyes closed, lips slightly parted and pale face speckled with blood.

          Blood. Oh, the blood. There was so much of it. There were cuts all over his body, steadily trickling blood, and a gaping wound, ugly, red and meaty near his chest. The smell perfuming the air was exhausting, making his head dizzy and the room spin.

          Numbly, Sherlock pulled his disposable phone out of his coat pocket and clicked speed dial number two. After two rings, the line picked up. “Hello?”

          “Lestrade, an ambulance. Baker Street. Now.” Then he hung up without waiting for an answer, allowing it to slip from his hand and fall with a thud to the floor.

          For the first time in his life, his brain shut down, leaving his body to instinctively pull his belstaf from his shoulders and drop to his knees to hold the coat to the wound on his friend’s chest. His chest was barely moving and if he took his pulse, he was sure it would be dramatically slowing, but he noticed none of this. His eyes were locked on his friend’s face, his own ratty clothes becoming soaked with blood, and he stayed that way until the distant sounds of an ambulance stopped under the flat’s window and then came loudly stomping up the stairs, yelling orders, and pulling Sherlock away from his friend.

          Sherlock allowed Lestrade to shuffle him out the building and into a police car, heading straight to St. Bart’s, following John’s ambulance.

          When they got there, Lestrade jumped from the car, but Sherlock was frozen in his seat, so Lestrade had to physically pull him into the building. When inside, he cornered the nearest nurse to get her to call for a doctor to make sure Sherlock wasn’t hurt or going into shock and asked to be informed of John’s progress. While a doctor threw a blanket over an unusually quiet and uncomplaining Sherlock and started to check his eyes with a torch, Lestrade was in conversation with another doctor.

          He was young and obviously a little green, but he tried to have an air of confidence despite his nerves. “Are you Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Lestrade nodded for the doctor to continue. “Well, I’m not sure how much the situation you are aware of, but I will let you know what I can. Mr. Watson-”

          Lestrade cut him off, “Doctor Watson.” The young doctor flushed a bit and continued. “Ah, yes, Doctor Watson, that is. He has several cuts covering his arms, legs, stomach, chest, torso, back, and feet-a total of over one hundred. We couldn’t be sure of the total because the wound on his chest might have obscured more. The wound on his chest is a bullet wound, but that is all we know for now until we do surgery. He is in prep now, and we should start any time.”

           Lestrade nodded his head slowly and glanced back at Sherlock. He was still staring off into space but it looked like a nurse got him to drink some water. He glanced back at the doctor and noted his uncomfortable look. “What is it?” He asked apprehensively, “What’s going on?”

          The doctor cleared his throat and tried his best to meet the detective’s eyes. “Sir, looking at his cuts at a glance, it looks like someone did this to him, that is…uh…torture. But like I said, he has some cuts on his back. Seven on his lower back and three across the shoulder blades. These cuts are different. They are slanted, all at different angles and depths, like the person that made them couldn’t see what he was doing. That, plus the wound on his chest, also at an odd angle, leads me to believe that he did this to himself.” The doctor finished and looked hesitantly at the detective, waiting for a reaction. Lestrade simply nodded his head and glanced back at Sherlock again, before saying, “Yeah, I thought this would be a possibility.”

          Lestrade took pity on the lad and told him to keep him updated and left to stand beside Sherlock. He didn’t even raise his head when he approached, just started mumbling.

          “…doesn’t make sense, Lestrade. Who was in the flat? Why would they want to hurt John? I took care of all Moriarty’s men, that couldn’t be it. I didn’t come back till now _for_ that reason. It couldn’t be random though, his injuries were too personal. How could they escape the flat without my noticing? I was at the door when the gun went off, unless they were still in the flat. I should have noticed that, if I just could have gotten there two minutes earlier-”

         “Sherlock! Stop, just stop a minute.” Lestrade cut him off. Sherlock was clearly in shock and heading down a dangerous path. It was unlike him to miss the obvious. He didn’t think he had the heart to tell him, but he deserved to know.

          “Look, Sherlock. Calm down. I’m sorry, no one hurt John, no one but himself.” Sherlock looked at him with cloudy and confused eyes and Lestrade barely heard the soft “what?” He sighed and squeezed his shoulder. “He did this to himself, Sherlock.” He looked intensely at Lestrade’s sympathetic eyes and said “I don’t understand.” Seeing him so confused and hurt, Lestrade was reminded when he first met Sherlock, picking him off the streets and taking him to this very hospital for an overdose. He rubbed a hand over his face and sat down next to him. “You know what I mean.”

          Sherlock looked away and muttered something about how John would never do that, but the same doctor from before came over with a chart in hand. “Um, DI Lestrade?” his gaze swept over to Sherlock wondering if he should speak in front of him. Lestrade was about to ask if Sherlock would go find something to eat in the caf **é** but he cut him a scathing look, so he turned to the doctor and nodded for him to continue.

          “Well, Dr. Watson is still in surgery but he is almost out. The bullet entered from the front near his chest at close range and bounced around inside him to land near the entrance wound again. Remarkably, it missed all major organs and caused only minor internal injuries including two broken ribs and one fractured rib. With the amount of cuts on his body plus the bleeding from his wound, he has suffered major blood loss. You got him here just in time. He should be in recovery soon and will be very dehydrated. He should drink plenty of liquids for at least a week. He should also stay off of his feet for a few weeks after that.” The doctor cleared in throat and looked into both of the men’s eyes as much as he could. “I’m going to be honest here; I didn’t think he would make it. I’m still not sure he will, there are complications that could still occur. I am hopeful though.”

          He shook both of the men’s hands and turned to leave. Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes before he finally spoke up, not meeting Lestrade’s eyes. “This is my fault, isn’t it?” Lestrade couldn’t lie to him but he couldn’t tell him the truth either, so instead he let out a deep sigh and asked if he wanted to get coffee from the caf **é.**

* * *

 

An hour later, a nurse came to find them both sitting in the café, cold cups of coffee in their hands. She let them know that John was now set up in recovery and could receive visitors, but only family, and that he will be unconscious so they shouldn’t try to wake him.

          Lestrade spoke up before Sherlock could comment and said, “Sherlock here is his boyfriend.” He swept his head around to glare at Lestrade accusingly, but soon caught on when he winked at him. He turned around to the nurse and tried for a convincing smile while saying “Yes, that’s me.”

          The nurse gave him a look full of pity, no doubt because of why John was here, and led him to a room on the second floor of the hospital. He was almost afraid to go in before he remembered fear was a silly and irrational emotion and was ushered in by the nurse.

        John looked terrible. He was in a hospital gown with a sheet tucked up to his chest and his arms resting on top of it. There were small white bandages all over his arms and an IV in the crook of his left one, dripping fluid. There was a clip on this ring finger to check his heartbeat, the machine sounding off steady beats, and several other machines attached to John through various parts patches and tubes. His chest was wrapped in thick white gauze and his face looked pasty and ashen, his lips slightly blue.

          Sherlock made a quiet strangled sound in the back of his throat, but the nurse was too busy fussing over John to take notice, now injecting his IV pouch with what was most likely a morphine solution as a pain reliever.

          There was a soft white blanket at the end of his bed so Sherlock unwound it to drape across John’s prostrate form, hoping to keep the blue from his lips. The nurse noticed but only gave him a small smile for his effort. When she was done with the solution, she said she would leave them alone for a while, reminding him not to wake him before he was ready. For an odd moment, Sherlock wasn’t sure if she was taking about John or himself.

          He pulled up a chair to his bedside table and sat quietly in it. It was uncomfortable, but not like the plastic one’s they had out in the caf **é**. He watched John’s face and his heart monitor, looking for signs of a change, any change, but finding none.

          There wasn’t much for him to do but wait. So that’s exactly what he did. Wait.


	9. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp guys, this is the last chapter. Unsure whether or not I will be doing an epliogue on account of how busy I am, but I think I might hate myself if I don't. In the famous words of Samuel L. Jackson, hold onto your butts.

         

* * *

 

          The machine was beeping slow and steady, just like his heart beat. It had been two weeks since he had been admitted to the hospital but John hadn’t woken once, and it was driving Sherlock insane. He had only left the hospital a total of four times in those weeks and that was only to shower and get his laptop, and even then he was never gone for more than an hour.

           Even when Sherlock was ‘dead’, he had seen John almost every day. Well, he says _seen,_ but mostly he had just heard his voice and seen fleeting glances of him from his cover behind the trees. He sounded like himself whether it was sad, angry, or like most days, almost borderline _bored_. But _this_? He wasn’t expecting this.

          John had lost weight. A _lot_ of weight. In fact, he looked like he could fit some of Sherlock’s shirts;albeit some of his _looser_ shirts, but that was quite the change from his usual sturdy build. He looks like he lost about three stones. His stomach was pounds away from being concave, and his cheeks and eyes were sunken, arms frail, skin ashen. He looked like he was morphing into a skeleton and Sherlock did not like it one bit. He had never seen John, his brave soldier and friend, look so vulnerable before. And it was all his fault.

          He hadn’t _just_ lost weight, he looked positively unhealthy. His veins were prominent in the creases of his elbows and behind his eyelids. His face was covered in a heavy shadow, the nurses not shaving him on account of Sherlock not letting anyone in the room except to give him medication and feed him since he couldn’t do it himself. The nurses managed to bathe him in Sherlock’s absence, but he returned before they had a chance to shave him.

          It was early morning now, the sun just now flitting through the blinds to cut across the blanket on John’s hospital bed. Sherlock had stayed up all night, which was nothing unusual in and of itself, but John’s heart monitor had been unsteady through the night. It would slow to an alarming pace where Sherlock had almost pushed the nurse’s call button, and then it would even out at a more normal rate. Then out of nowhere it would spike, causing the nurses to panic around the room checking his vitals, only to find nothing wrong and his pulse to slow back to normal.

          He experienced anxiety throughout the night with every beep of the monitor, which left him exhausted by the time the sun peeked through the window. John’s heart rate had been steady for a while now, and it was too tempting to slide into sleep. He unfolded himself from the chair beside John’s bed and made way to the door, stopping to send a glance at John’s heart monitor, before stepping out into the hall. He closed the door firmly behind him and glared at the nearest nurses to let them know that he would know if they entered John’s room. The nurses had been subjected to his oddities for a while now and took the glare as the warning it was.

          Satisfied that his warning was heeded, he turned on his heel to stalk to the café. The coffee was black and cheap but they had sugar packets available. It was not John’s coffee, but it was better than what he would muster up when he was staying at the cemetery.

          Sherlock hated this place now that he was confined to it. Yes, it was his own choice, but at the same time he had no choice. The hospital smelled like disinfectant and sickness, filled with people with sad faces. He tried to get back to John’s room as soon as possible.

          When he stepped out of the elevator, the scene before him was chaos. Nurses and doctors were running around frantic, shouting at each other. There was an alarm sounding that was subtle, but annoying, probably coming from on the patient rooms. A doctor ran by him and shouted, “I have the sedative!” That’s when he heard it.

           “No! Stop it, please! PLEASE! You don’t understand, I’m supposed TO BE DEAD!”

          Sherlock was halfway to John’s room when the meaning of the words finally caught up to his head. He stopped mid-stride, frozen with his foot in the air and his mouth gaping open in a silent shout.

          _Oh_

          All the air left his lungs in one great huff and his heart started beating again. _Of course_ , Sherlock thought, _John doesn’t know I’m alive, that’s why he’s here. He did this to himself, that’s what Lestrade said._

          John was yelling profanities at the nurses and making quite a fuss if the sounds coming from his room were an indicator. Another doctor came running past him, accidently bumping into Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sorry mate”, he yelled, and then to the staff in John’s room, “Don’t worry. I’ve got another one!”

          The screaming came to a halt and Sherlock could practically hear the collective sigh of relief from the staff.

          Hesitantly, Sherlock approached the room and peered inside. A doctor was standing in the corner with an empty syringe, two nurses were trying to haul a limp and barely conscious John back into the hospital bed and a third was trying to reattach an I.V. John was whimpering piteously by the time he was hooked back up, trying his best to stay awake, but it was a losing battle. A doctor pushed past Sherlock in the doorway followed by a security guard. The officer pulled out a pair of handcuffs and proceeded to secure John to the bed.

          Sherlock was about to protest, but the guard saw his uneasy look and was quick to reassure him. “Don’t worry son. It’s standard procedure for some suicide patients. Can’t have them trying to hurt themselves when they wake up, now can we?” Sherlock just nodded and turned back to look at John. He was staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes, not paying attention to anyone in the room. Everyone filed out of the room leaving Sherlock alone with John and another nurse.  
After checking his vitals again, she left with a reassuring touch to Sherlock’s shoulder.

          He was unsure if he should approach the bed with John still being conscious, but John’s whimpers made up his mind as he strode cautiously to his side. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, like they used to be when he woke in the middle of the night from his nightmares about the war. With every second that ticked by, he was slipping further into sleep. It was now or never.

          “John?” His gaze lazily shifted to meet Sherlock’s kaleidoscope eyes, barely a spark of recognition in his cobalt orbs. Sherlock knew he was mere minutes away from drifting off, he probably wouldn’t remember any of this…what could be the harm? This isn’t how he wanted to reunite with John, but he chances he would even know what was going on were slight. He was coming home, a little reassurance was in order, even if it went unrecognized.

          He grasped the older man’s hands lightly, feeling the calluses and rough spots gained from a life of hard work and working with one’s hands. These were such exceptionally complex hands. The pads of his fingers were firm but soft, his knuckles were cracked with the cold, the back of his hands showing the fragile veins under his lightly tanned skin. Then there was the bandages on his wrists…These were doctor’s hands; hands of a man living to help others. These were soldier’s hands; hands of a man living to save others. These were now the hands of a broken man not wanting to live at all.

          “Sherlock?” John’s hazy voice shook hi out of his thoughts and he was quick to pull his gaze back up to his face. “Yes?” John was blinking at him slowly, his voice slurring with sleep. “mm, missed you.” Sherlock smiled gently and said, “I missed you too, John.” He was giggling now, John’s high-pitched squeals still a pleasant surprise, especially since laughing was such an unusual occurrence as late. He would have to fix that, give John every reason in the future to laugh and smile, as often as possible. “Ah, mmm…”, Sherlock hummed, not sure how to respond.

          “Sher-“, a soft sigh, followed by a shy giggle, “Sherly, when you comin’ home, hm?” John was staring intensely into his eyes even though his eyelids were drooping. Sherlock found himself becoming hot with embarrassment, cheeks flushing with color as he squirmed and averted his eyes. _“Did he just call me…Sherly? Interesting.”_

          “Well, John,” he began, “as soon as you get better.” This seemed to satisfy him as well as upset him. His eyes clouded over and then shut completely. In a hushed whisper, he said, “Sh’lock? You’re… you’re mm best friend. I love you, you know? Missed…missed ya too.”

          Something was aching in his chest, a sickening twist and pull that constricted his heart. He remembered what it was like before he met John-lonely, quiet, boring, dull. But okay. It was fine. He was fine. He had never been more wrong.

          John was like a beacon of light, illuminating Sherlock’s life until every nook and cranny and shadow was brightened into iridescence. He had never realized how much he depended upon the good doctor. After everything that he went through in the past few years, Sherlock knew he could no longer claim he had no friends, not even that he only had one, but John by far was the most important. “I know John.” He said, “just…Just get some sleep, alright?” John seemed to take this into consideration before he decided that sleep sounded like a good idea. With a resolute nod, he turned his head away from Sherlock only to whip it back towards him with burrowed brows. “Wait…You...You’re …Here..? What?” Before he could finish his thoughts, Sherlock interrupted him in a panic. “John-don’t worry about it, not just yet. Go to sleep, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He looked like he was about to argue but he used up all of his strength just to stay awake, let alone talk. “Kay. See you in my next dream.” _Hm…I was afraid of that._

          Sherlock stayed until he was sure John was asleep and then let the room quietly with on last, withering look at her bandages on his arms.

 

* * *

 

          _Oh, here again._

          He’s at the cemetery, it’s winter this time; there is a thin layer of snow covering the ground, a few icicles hanging in the tree, and he can see his breath curling in the air with every exhale. He’s standing in front of the grave, those golden letters obstructed by a festive wreath that screamed Mrs. Hudson. The sight was almost enough to make him laugh, but this was routine, and the thought of what was coming next was enough to sober him right up.

          As predicted, there was Sherlock. Standing there next to his own grave and looking like an avenging god. But there was those damn sad eyes again, looking at him like John should have figured something out by now. “Tell me…”

          They were on the roof of Bart’s again and he was giving John that cocky half smile. He made to step backwards, but John wasn’t going to let him go that easily this time. He shot his hand forward and grabbed tightly to the pale wrist and pulled sharply towards him. The smug expression quickly fell from his face and was replaced by a look of shock.  

          John was having none of it and he made quick work to pull the tall man into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around his back and pushing his face into that ridiculous coat. All he could think was _Sherlock…_ Because he decided it was okay to say his name in his dreams. It was easier to deal with than if he did it in reality.

          He seemed stunned and wouldn’t move, neither to embrace him nor move away, which John was fine with. This was enough. So he squeezed jus a little tighter and breathed a little deeper and finally answered him. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

          John startled awake and was confused why he has so many wires connected to him, but a nurse chose that moment to walk in. She was shushing and fussing over him, trying to calm him down, but he was already calm and not really listening to her. Instead he focused his eyes on the bandages on his wrists and escaped into his mind. _It was only a dream._

 

* * *

 

          They told John he would be released from the hospital in a couple of days because he lost so much blood and he was still dehydrated, but he read between the lines. He was on suicide watch; they were making sure he wasn’t going to do something stupid, especially since his little outburst yesterday. Well, that is just unacceptable.

          He’s a doctor, and he can bloody well take care of himself. He mused how the saying that doctors make the worst patients was painfully true while he looked around the room for his clothes, finding them in a folding chair by the door that led to the small bathroom. Next he set about working on the machines he was attached to. Luckily for him, Bart’s hadn’t changed their override codes since he had studied there. Soon, he had the heart monitor and the machine that was keeping his vitals displayed shut down and his I.V. drip tied off. Standing up was a bit of a trip, but he soon regained his balance and cleared the fuzziness in his head enough to walk to the bathroom, grabbing his clothes on the way.

          He tried to undress and dress with stoic efficiency, but his curiosity got the best of him. His body looked shocking with white gauze decorating the panes of his chest and the muscles of his arms. It wasn’t just the bandages though, it was _him_. God, he looked awful. The bags under his eyes were more like luggage, and were puffy and purple. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks looked so papery. _My Lord,_ he thought, _when was the last time I shaved?_

          With an almost offended air, he started to rip the gauze off of his arms and stomach, leaving only the wrap that covered his new gunshot wound. Once again, his curiosity ebbed at him. He gingerly peeled back the top of the wrap and altered between staring down at it and looking at it in the mirror. He forgot how terrible it looked, so fresh. He had seen plenty of horrible wounds before, but the sight of the mark that signified this weakness sickened him.

          He finished dressing as quickly as possible.

          Once dressed, he made a quick survey of the hall before bolting toward the elevator and making his way out onto the street to flag down a cab.

 

* * *

 

          Sherlock knew it was stupid going back to the hospital, especially since John was bound to be awake, but he couldn’t stay away. He had to check on his friend, even if he couldn’t physically see him.

          When he stepped out of the elevator onto John’s floor, he automatically knew something was wrong. The nurses seemed agitated and John’s door was side open. He bit his lip as he made his way to the nurse station. One of John’s regulars, _a blond with bad teeth named Bernice, recently broke up with her boyfriend, a chronic nail biter, and forgot to take a shower this morning ,_ gave him a tight smile that showed her annoyance.

          “He’s not here. He was supposed to stay for a couple days for observation, but he up and left. Was real sneaky about it too-messing with our equipment and breezing his way past all the personnel. Doctors do that sometimes, think they can take care of themselves and have the right to leave whenever they please.”

          Sherlock quirked a brow at her and smirked. “Yes, well, that’s John.” The nurse rolled her eyes and pulled out a bunch of paperwork. “I don’t suppose you’re someone who can sign his release forms, are you?”

          He shook his head no and glanced toward John’s now empty room. “well,” she said, Sherlock glancing back at her with little interest, “ I suppose I’ll have to call his next of kin. Do you need anything else?”

          Sherlock one again shook his head no and made his way out of the hospital.

          _It’s time to see John._

 

* * *

 

          Stairs have never looked so steep or horrendous.

          Mrs. Hudson seems to be out, thank God, so he wouldn’t have to deal with her mothering for a while. He made his way heavily up the stairs, each footfall thundering in the too quiet flat, until he reached the door for 221 B.

          How long was he in the hospital? They should have cleaned up by now, why did they leave it like this? Now _he_ will have to clean it up.

          There was still blood on the floor, and, _dear Lord, did he really lose that much blood?._ The gun was gone, as well as the razor blade, probably taken as evidence. There were a few bloody footprints, all dried and an ugly brown color leading away from the largest spot of mostly dried blood. There were also two smaller spots of dried blood, a little smudged, that indicated someone was kneeling next to him. _I wonder if it was Greg._ He had come to see me, but only once in the beginning, and he was too mad to pay him any mind.

          John turned away in disgust, both at the work he was going to have to do to get that damn stain out of the carpet and with himself for being still here to worry about it. With a roll of his eyes, John went into the kitchen to make himself a cuppa.

          He clattered around the kitchen, probably making more noise than strictly necessary out of annoyance, setting out the milk and sugar and honey. It was a rare day when he actually drank the tea anymore, a little milk and a little sugar, but now a days, he always makes two cups, both with a little milk, no sugar, and a generous spoonful of honey- Just like the cause to all of his problems used to take it. He had such a strange diet. He almost never ate, but when he did, it would either be takeaway, all sorts, of unhealthy sweets and pastries and cakes, or John’s lasagna-he never understood that one, but it was a sure-fire way to get the git to eat-just like the only thing he ever drank was black coffee, two sugars, while working in the lab, tea with honey and milk in the mornings, and the occasional glass of wine over dinner-if he deigned to eat, that stubborn man.

          He thought he heard the door opening and closing downstairs- _I suppose Mrs. Hudson is back_ -and continued to make the tea, now pouring the steamy liquid into two cups. The cups were glass, white with gold trim, and had honey-bee outlines in gold on the front sides. He was going to give it to _him_ for his birthday, and he couldn’t bear to part with the set. It was precious really.

          There was a creak that sounded like someone was walking up the stairs- _Ah, so Mrs. Hudson’s seeing if I’m home. The hospital probably called her, or Mycroft-maybe thanks to both. I’d have to deal wither sooner or later, might as well get it out of the way._ He sighed and stirred the tea, mixing the honey until it blended nicely.

          He picked up the two cups, not bothering with saucers for the moment, and made his way into the living room, hoping to offer the one cup to his not-housekeeper. It wouldn’t look good for him to bring in two cups if he didn’t offer her one, she thought he had broke the habit. He hadn’t, of course, he just got better at hiding it.

          He walked into the living room with his eyes closed against the image of her face, so full of sympathy and a hint of pity, that was bound to be in place. Though he wouldn’t like anything more but for her to turn around and leave so that he could take a nap in peace, he knew she wouldn’t leave until she fussed over him and put her two cents in.

          So instead of stamping his feet like an impetuous child and then running off to his room, he sighed slowly through his nose and started to speak, opening his eyes quickly, like a band aid to reduce his torture form delaying the encounter, to meet Mrs. Hudson’s eyes, speaking tiredly; “Hello Mrs.-“

          His words stuck in his throat because the air suddenly became thick, too thick to breathe, too thick to see through properly, his eyes were swimming, he couldn’t breathe this butter air, this was too much, all too much, how was _he_ here?

          The man with the dark curls and familiar eyes spoke, his rich baritone shattering the broken façade of his heart that was only hanging on by a single stitch, sending it tumbling to a place where he wasn’t sure it could ever be found again.

          “Hello, John.”

          All of his energy left him in a great sweep. His shaking hands tilted the cups forward until they were falling down to the ground, breaking that fragile glass and the brown liquid of the tea pooled together with the deep browns and vibrant reds on the carpet, blood and tea. How apt that metaphor could be.

 

 

          _ **Finis**_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and leaving kudos' and thanks to 1butterfly_grl1 for commenting! It's been fun and I hope I can find the time to write and post more in the future.


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